


Ache

by sans_patronymic



Series: Apart [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 09:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: In Sussex, Watson pays Holmes a brief visit. Holmes does not know which is worse: when Watson is there, or when he is not.





	Ache

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Боль](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313944) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> For [sanguinity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/profile), who teased me with angsty dishwashing. May this inspire you to finish your fic, if only to show me how badly I've extrapolated.
> 
> Related to [this very fine canon pondering](http://plaidadder.tumblr.com/post/165617514454/a-different-perspective-on-garridebs) on the retirement timeline.

It is a quarter past ten when Watson finally arrives. I hadn’t meant to count the hours, but the new clock on the mantle is quite loud; not even my violin can drown out its infernal chimes. And so it is that when I hear a cart pause on the road and the front door open and close, I know Watson is nearly two hours late.

“I’m here!” he announces. “Hulloa!”

“Hello!” The violin is abandoned to an armchair. I race to the entryway to help him with his hat and coat. I hate to be so eager, but there is no other way to be. “How was the train? Are you hungry?”

I ask pointless questions these days. No one is two hours late when the train ride was terrific. And to know whether Watson has eaten on the train, one need only examine his shirtfront. Nevertheless, I ask, and feel foolish for asking.

“Oh, fine. Just fine. I missed the eight fifteen by moments; had to take the nine forty two. Had dinner while I waited.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yes.” 

We stand there a moment, wallowing. We don’t greet each other any more. Not a handshake, nor a pat on the back, nor a firm embrace. It feels too sudden now. We need time to warm up to the idea of touch. When I put his hat onto the peg by the door, I let my fingers linger along the silk band. It’s a new hat, the first he has purchased without my consultation in ten years.

“I’ll have a drink though, if you’ve got one.”

“Yes, of course, come right in.”

By the end of the second drink, our hands finally meet. I’m jabbering about the moles in the garden, gesturing broadly, when he catches my hand in the air and brings it to his lips. The kiss singes like acid. It grieves us both to be apart, like a dull ache in the bones. Yet, when we were together, the pain is sharp, acute.

“What’s the matter?”

“Headache—teach me to have a second glass of port. I’m getting to where I can hardly look at the stuff without getting a headache.”

“Here?”

“No, on the side—there.”

His fingers press the throbbing ache, then trace around the back of my skull, down my neck, into a knot in my shoulder which smarts at his touch. He digs a thumb into the flesh, sending a flash of lightening across me, then slowly, slowly, it fades, headache and all.

“Better?”

“Better.” 

“That’s not the wine. It’s tension.”

 “What have I got to be tense about? I hardly do anything anymore.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he remarks and chuckles in my ear.

We have become a tangle on the settee and I must remind myself that this is what I have longed for; that I ought to relax; that this is John Watson, the same John Watson I have known for nearly thirty years, and it is silly to be so nervous. The blood runs hot in my veins. I hate myself for all manner of sins—being too trusting, not trusting enough, for loving too well, but poorly. The list grows exponentially until we are stripped bare, laying one another down onto the bed in the spare room.

When we’ve finished, he lies back against the pillows and I watch him struggle to pick one of my hairs off his tongue. He is so beautifully calm and unashamed when we are alone. I cannot leave these moments unbroken anymore. I open my mouth, lift my hammer, and smash:

“I always think of this room as your room.”

He says nothing. He has managed to pull the hair from his mouth and flicks it over the side of the bed before taking my hand. Underneath the covers, a foot strokes mine. Tonight, I am unsatisfied with broken. Tonight, I want shards; I want smithereens.

“It could be, you know. And that desk in the parlor. It looks out towards the coast. No one here would say a word about us; they haven’t the imagination for it.”

“Holmes, please,” Watson pleads at last. His breathing is shallow and for a glorious moment I think we shall finally, really have it out. He squeezes my hand and says, “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

I am gutted. I assent. He turns over and wraps himself around me. I try to memorize the sensation of his breath against my neck, so I can imagine it for myself after he’s gone. I hate the quiet. I ask questions, silly questions, safe ones.

“What are you writing about now?”

His arm snakes across my stomach. He pinches a bit of me between his fingers gently, just at the spot where age has decided to soften me. Watson loves all of my worst features.

“Remember that Spanish politician who was assassinated at Wisteria Lodge?”

“Vaguely.”

“It’s about that, more or less. I had to change quite a lot to keep the embassy happy… it’s still a delicate subject. Now everyone’s from some made-up place in the Americas. Added a whole bit about voodoo, too.”

“Voodoo? You _are_ getting ridiculous. It’ll be ghosts and vampires next.”

“It sells.”

I fall asleep listening to him recount adventures we’ve never had. They are amusing, contradictory, and absurd. He’s right; they’ll sell.

For the next few days, I am on my best behavior. I pack away my nerves. I ask only pointless questions. I do not break anything. When I must, I duck into the bath, or the kitchen, or the toilet, and I cry. I return looking none the worse, or if I do, Watson does not mention it.

Our three days pass quickly. We make sandwiches, walk across the Downs, read together, and argue about things which don’t matter. I make him laugh whenever possible, which is particularly easy very early and very late. I have perfected a routine where I pretend not to understand the pyjamas he bought me last Christmas. I try to put the trousers on over my head and wrap the shirt about my waist. It isn’t very funny, but my dogmatic devotion to it tickles him.

When the fourth morning arrives, I awaken to a tremendous pain in my stomach. My liver does not want him to leave. He makes breakfast for the two of us, but I cannot find my appetite and the eggs sit there on my plate, growing colder and grayer. I wash up while he packs his valise. When we’re both done, we sit in the kitchen, wallowing over coffee. Already I can feel the ache creeping back into my skeleton. The front bell rings—Hastings is here with the cart.

“When do you think you’ll be back?”

“I don’t know. Not for a bit. Perhaps around Christmas?”

“So long?”

“I don’t know.”

I stare into my cup. I pick up my hammer. I smash.

“You’ll forgive me if I do not see you off at the station.”

 Watson nods. He says nothing. I finish my coffee. I want to hurl the cup at the wall, to hear the satisfying sound of it shattering. I do not. I put it back, very gently, onto its saucer. I go out into the garden and refuse to hear the sounds of his departure.

 I stay out there for an hour, for two. The moles are back. They have burrowed underneath my defenses and gotten into the carrots again. I’ll have to dig deeper. I try to pretend Watson doesn’t exist, that he never existed. When I go back into the kitchen, I notice someone has washed my cup. I smash it in the sink and grab the spade from the wall. I march back into the garden, merciless.


End file.
